


death among templars

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, One Shot Collection, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-linear, Shit i don't know how to tag, Trust, Wet Dream, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-06 06:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: Short pieces about Haytham Kenway





	1. Poison

Being with Haytham is like drinking a slow poison.

You’ve seen him place a hand on sacred texts and with shining eyes, he let promises spill from his lips. You’ve seen him recoil in indignation when you hesitated to believe his sworn statements and assurances, as if you’d dismayed the honor and pride of a dashing Templar Grandmaster.

It had taken you too many times to recognize the pattern: for when you agree to believe his promises, suddenly blood drips from the blades on his wrists. And he shrugs.

_What else did you expect?_

Death among Templars is not immediate; it is slow and and it is subtle. Should you finally realize that something is terribly, terribly wrong, it’s time to start drafting your obituary and make a decision to whom you shall pass on the traditional silver ring with a red cross.

Time and time again, you find yourself on the threshold of his office. Waiting for a burst of confidence. Aching for the assignment that would send you halfway across the world so Haytham Kenway could forget about you, and so you could forget about his broken oaths.

A few months pass. The Templar Order further digs its nails into the Americas. It seems your time here amidst brewing, violent colonies will be indefinite.

And then Haytham summons you to the privacy of his office, and he gestures you to stand by the fire and warm your hands. You focus wholly on the plumes of orange and yellow, completely aware of the way his eyes search you. “I’m going to Damascus,” Haytham tells you quietly. “I will be leaving tomorrow.”

You nod.

“Do you have counsel for who should accompany me?”

“Holden,” you say after a moment’s pause. “Jim Holden.” The man was a friend and ally to Haytham; while he wasn’t a member of the Order, his character would be invaluable for the likely long and challenging trip.

“I thought so.” You make the mistake of looking at him; those gray eyes are cool and steady, and they search you for signs of faltering before him. He’d take any opportunity to make you believe in his promises, again and again. His smooth voice drills past your thoughts: “And still. Here I am, racking my mind for every conceivable excuse to bring _you_.”

Being with Haytham Kenway is like drinking a _sweet_ poison.


	2. Dreaming

It is almost midnight when the soft  _ scritch  _ of quills against parchment ceases, when candlelight gives way to darkness, and the Templar Grandmaster finally crawls underneath the bed sheets to join you. You stir at his touch. He is cold, and then warm as he presses his chest against your back in an achingly familiar manner. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, sounding exhausted. “Go back to sleep.”

You close your eyes as the scent of  _ him _ , earthbound and comforting, settles in your senses.

It is difficult to believe in anything but Haytham’s tender touches when the sun sinks past the horizon. He finds order and discipline in his work; he finds a welcome warmth in your bed. There’s an unspoken rule to not talk about Templars and Rites and whatever crosses his writing desk when his arms wind around you. Nothing but soft promises and adorations in the space between your bodies.

God, sometimes you love him so much that it  _ hurts _ .

His voice jolts you from sleep, hours later. You feel his breath tickle your neck. Haytham murmurs something incoherent, and pulls you even closer to his body. And then you hear it. A  _ moan _ from the older man as if he’s struggling or concerned. Then suddenly his hips buck against yours and his hard cock digs into the small of your back--

\--all the fucking breath leaves your body as your eyes snap open.

His arms are like a solid vise; you carefully brush against his wrist, and Haytham moans again, snaps his hips forward again, and you stifle a gasp. He’s fucking  _ grinding  _ against you while he’s  _ still  _ asleep. Haytham Kenway, having a wet dream? You almost have a laugh at the idea.

The two of you have slept together from time to time. Those nights leave you breathless and under his body, his domain; he likes to pin you down and fuck you slowly in a way that makes you think that Kenway is something less like a man, more like a god. No one should taste or feel that good.

His breaths come faster and faster, and so does his movement. His hands begin to wander, digging into your hips and thighs until you think that there will be bruises in the morning light. Just as quickly as they started, Haytham draws in a sharp breath and stills his entire body. He murmurs your name.

You roll over in the bed and hesitantly meet his gaze.

“I apologize.” He blinks slowly, not quite awake, not quite aware of what is happening. “I was... dreaming.”

His dark hair falls loose over his face, and he brushes it out of the way. His eyes are black, unassuming, and unbelievably filled with adoration. “Must have been quite a dream,” you whisper. Your breath catches in your throat as one of his large hands sets against your collarbone.

“It was,” he replies. The warmth sinks past your nightgown, then he slides his palm _up_ , then _down_ , past the collar to touch your naked _skin_ \-- and a shiver caresses your spine as easily as Haytham searches your body for the same sounds that he made minutes before. 

He kisses you swiftly, swallowing your whimpers with a gentle bite in your bottom lip, then soothes with a sweep of his tongue. You push against his chest, breaking the kiss with some effort. “Tell me about it,” you demand. Even in the dim moonlight that streaks through the windows-- oh, he’s  _ blushing _ .

You wrap your hands around one of his-- the man is tall and broad-shouldered, and he dwarfs you in every delicious aspect-- and kiss curiously at his forefinger. Looking at him with wide eyes, you take the finger into your mouth and suck, so he knows that he and his dreams are responsible for this late night tryst--

The Grandmaster groans. “There’s-- really not much to say,” he manages, struggling to remain composed. “My dear, that mouth could be put to better use--” he cuts off with a hiss as you add his middle finger. “I-- I had you in my office-- and we--  _ fucked _ \-- on the desk--”

You release his hand and Haytham grabs your face for a desperate, bruising kiss. He effortlessly shoves you on your back and straddles your hips, grinding that still-hard erection against you. Haytham sets his mouth against your neck and kisses and bites and does all sort of unsavory, ungentlemanly things--

“Satisfied with my confession?” he teases, back to his rich, elegant drawl.

You twist your fingers into his long locks. “Care to demonstrate?” Haytham smirks and silences you with another kiss, but the next thing you know is that he’s picked you up and deposited on the desk, scattering letters and quills and books in every which direction. 

 


	3. Public Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ! nsfw ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: your comments bring me to LIFE im very pleased you all enjoy

“We’re outdoors! Someone could see us!”

Oh, oh, it is absolutely the _wrong_ choice of words. Haytham’s breath hitches in his throat and his fingers press against your hip, seeking through the folds of fabric, for flesh and skin. His knee slides between your thighs and you curl your hands into his cloak. You’re in public, _you’re in public, and the Grandmaster of the Templar Rite wants to fuck you in public_.

This is _bad_ , but his lips on your neck feels so _good_ , and you don’t think you ever want him to stop. Just that this could be a more, _ah_ , ideal scenario. “Haytham,” you hiss, trying to pull at his gray clothes. “ _Haytham._ Are you willing to be arrested for indecency?”

He ignores you. You impatiently reach up and seize his ponytail, tugging lightly-- and _fuck_ , his mouth slips and Haytham teases his tongue along your collarbone. His weight impossibly grows heavier against your body, trapping you between his eagerness and the wrought-iron gate. This is bad and it could be worse, but it only takes a stray glance past the baby breaths and hyacinths to see him necking you-- _in the middle of the public gardens_.

“Haytham, _please_ \--”

The dark-haired man finally drags his mouth to find yours, however with a bruising kiss that takes your breath away. “Come now,” he purrs in _that_ voice, heavy-lidded eyes lingering on your stinging lips, “haven’t you wanted to be a little more adventurous? Something more… daring?”

His hand slides past your fitted shirt and teases the sensitive skin above your waistband. You bite your lip to stifle any traitorous sounds, but Haytham sneaks that deft tongue against yours, extracting the most criminal moans.

“There’s-- thrill in these sort of endeavors,” the Grandmaster manages, his collected words stuttering as his hips unconsciously grind against yours. You can feel every part of his body, every part of him _wants_ you, and damned if you’re not flattered-- “I’ll take you home and entertain all of your fantasies, my dear, so long as you suffer a moment with me-- ”

Those hands are pushing and pulling , he shoves your pants and knickers past your hips in one fluid moment, and Haytham drags you upward for another crushing kiss, before unlacing his own trousers. His cock strains against your groin, its warmth searing in the cool air, and he groans, not yet finding permission to make you _his_ \--

\--and maybe it’s inferred in the way you kiss him, or maybe he sees answers with wishful thinking, but he slides into you and the gate shudders violently under your combined weight. You curse loudly and he sweetens those vile words with his mouth, already settling in the rhythm to claim you, to steal your breath, to coax a high before you’re caught, _before you’re caught fucking the Grandmaster._

It’s not long before Haytham falters, his desperation overriding any cause or concern to fuck you kindly, and his thick cock presses against an intimate area that makes you clench around him; he sinks his teeth in your neck to stifle his broken moans as he thrusts, harder and faster, before he comes inside you, his arms tender around your figure.

For a few minutes all you know is harsh, heavy panting as both you and Haytham struggle to catch your breath. The two of you fumble awkwardly at your clothes. A quiet whine slips past your lips as you feel slick start to drip down the inside of your thighs. He strokes your hair and kisses you gently, slowly, like he’s asking forgiveness for his insistence and haste and the realization that you’re not allowed to tell anyone about.


	4. Public Gardens, cont.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nsfw!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> take this

Haytham Kenway made you a promise in the midst of public gardens. Now that’s leverage; now that’s an opportunity to take revenge or just desserts or whatever you’d desire from the handsome man.

You noticed that he was a little more attentive to your activities within the Order. Spending a few more minutes in your company. Complimenting your field work with slightly more praise. It’s not long before you realize that the sly devil hopes his affection will distract you from-- well, the possibilities are limitless.

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten,” you tell him as you hand him a report submitted from another Templar branch in the Americas. Haytham doesn’t look up. He takes the file and scans through it automatically.

“Forgotten what?”

The conversation tone is as casual as discussing the weather; the implicit meaning burns like a hot ember at the center of your chest. “I hope I’ll see you shortly before supper. You might find something worth your interest.”

He might act like a gentleman, but Haytham can be downright dishonest. Fortunately, he has the good grace to yield to his promise-- to _you_.

There is a polite knock at your door. He’s shed his tricorn hat and outer cloak, standing with hands clasped behind his back in a dress shirt, and a rosewood-red waistcoat and ascot. Typical outfit for an informal dinner. You invite him and he obeys, though he remains as stiff as a board. “My God, Haytham, don’t look so pained. It’s sex, not an interrogation.”

His lips twist in disagreement. “I might have reasons to be concerned.”

“I’m not as exceptional or provocative as you think.”

“Please. I’ve attended several of your higher-level missions. You are prone to all sorts of _devious_ thoughts.”

The banter eases some of the tension in his shoulders. Seeing this, you slowly untie the ascot around his neck. You tuck it in your waistband and pretend to ignore the way his gaze follows. “Aye, perhaps I’m primed for mischief. But probability does not define success, Master Kenway, I seem to recall you saying that on more than one occasion.”

“I’m adamant that I said that _luck_ does not-- no matter, your point stands.” The Grandmaster finally touches you. You welcome that addicting touch as he tilts your chin up with the barest graze. He studies you with a faint amused light in his eyes. “Don’t make me regret you,” he says, then kisses you lightly.

He tastes sweet, like far too many sugar cubes in his morning tea, and you pull back after a few moments. “I’ve always looked up to you as a Templar and an individual,” you tell him softly. “But if you’ll indulge me, Haytham, I want you on your knees.”

You expect defiance. You expect him to recoil in disgust or abhorrence. You expect anything but--

Haytham’s entire body shivers and he steals one more kiss before he _obeys_ , sinking slowly to the wood-paned floor. His pliant mouth trails down to your neck, your chest, the soft tummy under your shirt, before he levels his gaze with your waist. His gray eyes seem to fix hungrily on the red ascot that still peeks out from the trousers. You lift your hands and cup his face.

You run your fingers through his hair, letting it fall loose over his shoulders. He leans into the touch and you dimly think, _This feels good._

“I want all of your attention,” you say, voice cracking.

“You have it.”

The stout however gentle-spoken reply coaxes a smile from you. “That sounds like a promise. Be careful. Remember what happened last time when you promised something in haste?” Your fingers dance along his neckline and Haytham groans quietly. He distractedly presses his lips to the inside of your palm.

An unspoken message passes through the simple kiss: _Yes, yes, now do what you will with me._

“Clothes off.” You step back and his eyebrows arch, like he expected you to assist. Unfortunately, Haytham strips alone, throwing his shirt and waistcoat to the side. He unbuttons his trousers and pushes them halfway down his thighs before you interrupt him. “Shift backwards against the bed. Hands behind your back.”

The tip of his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. Thinking. Deciding. Surrendering. Haytham follows your (objectively) tame request and settles his head back, watching you curiously as you deftly loop the ascot around his wrists. It’s the right height to relax instead of keeping his arms taut above his head. His breath tickles your ear as you lean down to secure him against the bed leg. “Refresh my memory. What did you say? ‘Primed for mischief’?”

You easily match his gray gaze. “Master Kenway--” And a muscle in his jaw twitches-- “There’s thrill in these sort of endeavors.”

“Hm. My knees are most definitely thrilled.”

You laugh, reward him with a quick kiss, and then slide a pillow under his legs to relieve the pain. A glance at the wall clock reads that the two of you have enough time for a little entertainment. “You may kiss me, but I want those hands to remain where they are, Haytham.”

The Grandmaster begins to reply, then words dissolves into a groan as you straddle his legs, your trousers brushing against his cock. The friction intensifies as you buck against him, your hands flat against his chest, grinding your core against his growing erection. All of his smart remarks are lost in pained, desperate moans. He strains for a moment against his bonds, then freezes.

“Good,” you pant, and wrap a hand around the base of his erection, slowly dragging it along the length. This feels _intimate_ , this feels _good_ , and Haytham looks like he’s plotting another tryst in the gardens in revenge for this _endeavor_. “You could put that mouth to proper use, Grandmaster.”

Immediately, his lips find a sensitive spot on your neck, and you keen and stroke _harder_ until his hips buck against yours, too. He is _warm_ and _aroused_ and the nails on your other hand dig into his chest as you fight to remain balanced.

His hot breath washes over the spot he’s kissed and licked and bitten to the point of a bruise. “I want your _mouth_.”

“You will have--” you gasp, pausing the demanding rhythm against his cock-- “what I _give_.” The bed shudders as Haytham knocks his head back and closes his eyes, again defeated by your bidding. As he stills, you run your thumb over the tip and smear beads of precum along the underside. You stroke _hard_ , and elicit the most beautiful, _perfect_ groan from those parted lips.

Then the clock chimes, once, twice, seven times, to signal supper for all ranking Templars in the building.

The last thing Haytham wants to do is replace his clothes and go down to the rest of his fellows, calm and reserved and _sane_. His hips buck frustratedly against your touch. Maybe with a few more strokes, and he’ll come and be rid of this torture-- then you release his cock and leave him straining on the brink of orgasm.

He hazily watches you retreat, wipe your hands on a towel, and shrug on a jacket.

“No,” Haytham murmurs, looking up at you with realization. “No, you don’t mean--”

“I don’t mean to skip this meal, Grandmaster. But,” you say, leaning down to untie his restraints and hand him his clothes, “if you behave as we dine with the others, I might finish you afterwards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/1/2018 update: check this out! something like a companion piece/sequel [cat-and-mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162427)

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued? who knows


End file.
